


Passing in Corridors

by atomicsupervillainess



Series: The House that Heaven Built [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Feels, FitzSimmons - Freeform, Gen, In the framework, One-Shot, One-Shot Collection, Repressed Memories, hidden memories, post 4x15, the body keeps score, unconscious memories surfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 08:36:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9876824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atomicsupervillainess/pseuds/atomicsupervillainess
Summary: She didn’t expect to see him here.L Street Diner wasn’t the sort of place he’d frequent, here. There were vinyl seats, for christ sake. Her Fitz, he liked the cracked seat the best, would score his nails against the flaking wood resin of the counter, thinking, trying to come up with the words to speak, while she motored on, unconcerned. That had been back in the early days, when they were so oblivious, light as air and buoyant with youth and happiness and all of the possibilities.There was no Academy here, in this Boston. No reason to be headquartered here, except maybe MIT. But he'd never had that much affection for it, not like the Academy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks, LOOK WHO'S BACK?!
> 
> With this last episode and this upcoming hiatus, I had to get in and play with the idea of embodied memory and that Fitzsimmons soul connection. This is the first of four one-shots in The House that Heaven Built collection. 
> 
> In this, Jemma has just arrived in the framework, still shaken from her encounter RoboFitz. I'm not sure how much to get into here, in terms of theoretical framework mechanics, but if something seems unclear, I might revise this. It's a little bit iceberg in it's construction, but I hope you guys like it! 
> 
> P.S. Don't listen to Introduction, Nothingness by Hayden Calnin when you think about Fitzsimmons in the Framework. It will fuck you up.
> 
> As always, comments water my crops, clear my skin, and fill my bank account!

* * *

 

Her breath caught in her throat like a fish struggling on a hook.

She didn’t expect to see him here.

L Street Diner wasn’t the sort of place he’d frequent, here. There were vinyl seats, for christ sake. Her Fitz, he liked the cracked seat the best, would score his nails against the flaking wood resin of the counter, thinking, trying to come up with the words to speak, while she motored on, unconcerned. That had been back in the early days, when they were so oblivious, light as air and buoyant with youth and happiness and all of the possibilities.

There was no academy here, in this Boston. No reason to be headquartered here, except maybe MIT. But he'd never had that much affection for it, not like the Academy.

No. Boston was where Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons became Fitzsimmons, and they both loved it for that. Maybe part of that love remained, through all of the reprogramming.

Jemma stuffed the napkin she’d been scrawling on quickly into her pocket. She’d been jotting down the lost agents’ addresses from memory - it wouldn’t do have him see his grand, steel and chrome castle of an office listed right at the top.

He wore his hair differently here. Not much. It wasn’t bad. Or better. Just different. Styled, not mussed, not the ruffled short licks of hair struggling to curl when his hands carded through it.

Jemma clutched hard at the small white cup, trying to keep her tremble from knocking the bottom against the china plate beneath. How she longed to reach up and furrow her fingers through it, scratch her nails along the back of his ear, to curve along his jaw, and pull his lips to hers. How she longed for the antidote of the press of his lips to dissolve the last image of them, sputtering blood, dead-eyed before the knife had sparked at his throat.

She squeezed her eyes shut. _It wasn’t him, it wasn’t him. It wasn’t ever him_. It was a pale facsimile, just a mask over a monster.

Jemma breathed deeply, and opened her eyes, trying to find something to say - to broach the distance between where she was, and where he was hidden, inside that pressed suit.

His eyes were a bit glazed, his manner brusque as he slipped into the space of counter beside her, one hand raised for the waitress. He quickly skimmed the menu, by rote, as if he knew what he wanted, but just wanted to double-check, like it might surprise him, but never did.

Jemma had never been good at improvisation. And this seemed like the most monumental stage, her fright flooded by an ocean of misfiring synapses - desire and fear and love and anguish. She swallowed empty air and unformed words.

“The usual, Mr. Fitz?” Asked the waitress.

“You’ve got me Jessica. Same as ever…” He chuckled, shooting her a disarming smile and scratching at his beard. Oh god, it _hurt,_ to see something so familiar embodied in someone so different.

 _It’s still him. It’s always going to be him. It’s something more than programming. It’s who he is, inside this fiction._ She repeated it like a mantra, over and over. Why else would he be here? Why else would he be in this place, where this Framework version of him didn’t belong? Why not something fancy?

“Spaghetti Bolognese,” Jessica said with a wink, “No surprises with you.”

Fitz sighed, deeply, from the core of him. “No, s’pose there’s not.” He seemed to deflate, as his head turned toward the door once more.

Jemma took a deep breath, her voice tremulous, as she said the same stupid line she’d said the first time they’d met. “C-come here often?” Her voice ticked up at the end, a tumult of fear crashing against her heart like a tidal wave.

He’d tugged at the lapel of his overcoat, and stopped, a photograph.

“It’s just that, I mean - the, uh, the waitress. Your conversation - I didn’t mean to - can’t help b-but overhear…” She stuttered.

Her eyes flashed a honeyed gold up at him, and back down, like a lighthouse beam signalling a shore. There was something desperate and unwieldy in her gaze. Something recalled within the lilt and cadence of her smoothed northern accent. It was like he could hear her, somewhere in the recesses of his chest, humming little songs, murmuring something that made a garden bloom inside him, warm and red and sunny yellow.

It was...uncanny.

It terrified him.

His feet stuttered a few steps forward, his face grew ashen. Eyes wide, he raked his gaze over her disheveled appearance, trying to put a name to her face, a memory to the feel of her body moving beneath him, her cold fingertips at his temple - _Cold hands? How - how do I know that? What is happening?_

There was dirt under her nails, and against her temple, like she had tried to wash hastily in a convenient toilet. Her clothes looked fresh. It was disconcerting - and the way she stared at him, like a knife, keen-edged, waiting for him to say something, anything -

“Y-you’re _new_ , erm, here, I mean.”

Jemma nodded. She could feel the prick of tears in her eyes. “But it reminds me very much of a place I used to go.”

Fitz nodded briefly, feeling far away, sounds becoming muffled in his ears, as his heart began to pound. He - he had to do... _something_. Anything. Escape this feeling, like all the insulation had been pulled away, and he was just exposed wiring, for no reason.

“Erm, lunch break - gotta, uh, run, sorry.” He muttered, gesturing with his take-away container. He averted his gaze, forcing his feet into something midway between a trot and a run.

Halfway down the block, hand clutching at the wings that seemed beat against his rib cage, he turned to stare at the neon diner sign, bewildered and shaken, without knowing why.

Leo shook his head, let out a low breath, and began the short walk back to his office.

He’d been going there every day for - for as long as he could remember…

 _How long is that?_ His mind got foggy, suddenly. He shook his head to clear it.

And why? It wasn’t particularly appealing. He could afford to go to one of those lovely french places a few blocks over from the office. But there was something familiar in the checkered tile, the red vinyl, the smell of the garlicky red sauce from the kitchen. Like an unfinished blueprint, it sketched out an empty place inside him. He went every day, hoping to find something that would shade in the detail, fill in the space.

Leo patted his hand against the heavy thudding in his chest, and pictured her face. “Jemma?” He thought, suddenly, without cause.

A spike of pain lanced through his brain, like lightning, searing any thought from his mind. God, he hated those cluster headaches. They happened so frequently, these days.

“What on earth was I thinking about?” He muttered to himself, quickening his pace.

~*~

Jemma.

“ _Jemma_ …” She breathed, rooted, a few paces behind, reaching forward to steady herself against a trash bin. A tiny sob escaped as she pressed a hand to her sudden, achingly wide smile.

“Jemma.” She giggled, tears spilling from her eyes.

Shaking her head, she laughed quietly, “Oh, Fitz.”

 


End file.
